What Lays in the Absence
by MerkinViolet
Summary: She is Caesar's daughter. He is the Legion's greatest spy. Together, they will watch the world burn. Vulpes/OFC In Progress
1. Chapter 1

_…__It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words._

_'__Exterminate all the brutes!'_

Heart of Darkness, 66

Chapter One

Lucius was the oldest of the "second generation," called such as those first to come as children, elevated from the ignorance of their tribal origins. Graham and the others were well into adulthood and became substitute gods until the children were converted to what amounted to another brand of their own heathen religion. Higher beings were translatable—so were rituals of supplication. Names changed, perhaps minor details, but the core remained. Something outside of themselves, just out of reach, complex powers that explained what they could not. But that was an essential collar and leash on the masses. Religion, Lucius mused, was the greatest force of submission. Greater even than the threat of crucifixion, torture, or the murder of loved ones right in front of their eyes. It would behoove the Legion's cause to implement more of it in their great conquest.

A few Praetorians whispered hurried words and there was movement near the entrance to Caesar's war tent. Favoring his left knee, Lucius stood to see who—or what—had arrived. With great effort he walked smoothly up behind Caesar's throne, gazing over the balding, crowned head and into the calm eyes of their lord's daughter. She was dressed in profligate's clothing, dust covering the corn-silk of her hair, and blood decorating what visible bare skin there was. Her stance was straight, proud, unafraid. Portia was home at last.

"Tata," she murmured the Latin diminutive, bowing her head. Whether the respectful gesture was actually out of respect or simply mockery, Lucius could not guess. Portia's motives had always been a mystery to those charged as her guardians. He suspected that even Caesar was not fully certain of what went through his disobedient child's mind, what fueled the bright soul that spurred her actions. Had she been Lucius' own daughter, the girl would've been sent into seclusion with the priestesses in Flagstaff. But Portia was Caesar's only daughter, twin to his first son and heir, and she had been bestowed with his permanent favor the moment she first drew breath. It was a painful weakness of the man who was supposed to have none.

Lucius kept his attention on Portia as Caesar ordered most of his men out. Those left included only himself and Vulpes, who had been the one to bring her in. His expression was unreadable, as usual, but the firm set of his jaw revealed he was none too pleased with the current situation. It was a little tell Lucius had learned over the many years he had known the boy—well, he was no boy now. A grown man, and the leader of Caesar's Frumentarii. No mean feat. And yet a woman, one several years his junior, had bested him for an entire week after the three his men had fruitlessly spent looking for her. No, he was not pleased, Lucius was sure. And he shouldn't be—Caesar's daughter or no, the amount of time it had taken to retrieve the girl was an embarrassment.

Caesar finally spoke. His words were slow, and his tone that peculiar one used only upon his children. "So, daughter. You have returned."

Portia looked up, still calm. Lucius couldn't wait to hear what she had to say.

"Yes, father."

"What have you been doing these past four weeks?"

Inculta, who had not moved from Portia's side, clenched a fist at the mention of the ignominious time frame. It only lasted half a second, but Lucius caught it. From behind their lord, he allowed a smirk at the normally self-assured spy. Bastard deserved a knockdown now and then. But the young man didn't rise to the bait. Rather, he seemed to relax at Lucius' gesture, reading something out of it that wasn't clear to anyone but himself.

Caesar's daughter matched his measured, quiet tone. "Completing the job your men could not, father. I've found Joshua Graham."

The creak from Caesar's throne was loud as he shifted forward. "Tell me."

"Graham is in Utah, a place called Zion. A more specific location is marked on a map in my belongings. There he lives with a group of tribals, men and women who follow his preachings of peace and order. He is a _free man_." The last two words were spoken with such venom that even Vulpes glanced down at her. It was well-known Portia had little love for the former Mapais Legate, but she was always diplomatic, demure—her voice delicate. Now Lucius saw some of her fire revealed. Hereditary, perhaps, for it was not unfamiliar.

"Vulpes?" Caesar questioned, leaning back once more.

Inculta nodded once, his cold eyes settling upon his lord. "It will be done, Caesar."

"See that it is. And though you do not deserve it, I will make sure it isn't known that your job was done by a woman. But don't let it happen again." His words were simple, but the threat was glaring to Lucius, and, he imagined, to Inculta. Failure within the Legion garnered only one answer.

As she and Vulpes left the tent, it struck no one as peculiar that he rested his hand lightly on her back, guiding her out into the cool night beyond.

Portia did not care for the man called Lucius. He was egotistical and had nothing to show for it these days. Whatever respect that may have kept his subordinates from challenging his position was misplaced. And he stared—always stared, thinking whatever fool thoughts his brain entertained. They weren't hard to decipher, if one took a moment to examine his transparent features. The guard dog with no secrets. The guard dog who envied Vulpes Inculta. The guard dog who judged his lord's daughter without preamble.

The silly boy had better watch where he stepped, for she would have Caesar's ear long after his Praetorian heart stopped beating.

"What is on your mind, dulce?" Vulpes asked quietly. The black Nevada night was punctuated here and there by small fires near the tents. The way the shadows flickered across Vulpes' features made his eyes glint dangerously, though he did not look down when she glanced up at him. His attention was on their surroundings, searching, always searching for the next threat or useful intel.

Finally, Portia murmured, in a somewhat sultry tone, "My birthday." The sounds of a slave-whipping drifted their way, faint, but enough to steal her attention. Just for a moment. Then, "I know what I want you to get me."

"Is that so? Do elaborate."

In a split second she'd grabbed his hand and pulled him behind some empty tents. Startled by her indecorous behavior, Vulpes grabbed her shoulders and pushed her lightly against the wooden fence that surrounded the entirety of the camp. But there was a smirk on his face. He liked danger; he loved when Portia tested his limits. He stared into her blue, expansive eyes until she couldn't hold his gaze any longer. Then he very carefully ran his fingers down the side of her neck and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear before leaning in and whispering, "Tell me, little bird."

For her part, Portia was stunned by Vulpes' _astounding_ impropriety. Leave it to him to always one-up her. The way he touched her, that velvet tone of his voice, made her shiver in anticipation, in excitement, in longing for something she knew she shouldn't want. Not if she wanted to remain the master of her own soul, that is. But damn if she didn't wish to run her hands all over that body of his and kiss those soft-looking lips and tell him— _Stop_.

Portia pulled it together and dared to match his tone. Dark, a warning, a promise of something more. "I think Lucius has outgrown his position, don't you? Perhaps it is time for a change in the guard."

Chuckling, Vulpes leaned his forehead against hers, and took her hands in his. "If that is what you desire."

"It is."

"Then it will be done."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**One Week Earlier**

_O constancy! be strong upon my side;  
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue;  
I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.  
How hard it is for women to keep counsel! (2.4.6)_

It was clear by the twelfth day of her journey that Portia was going to get pretty far without Legion intercession. Her father and Alecto had taught her well. And unless Mars himself willed otherwise, she was going to find Joshua Graham before they caught up. It was twenty days in before _that_ occurred, before Vulpes Inculta was sent out to track her down. Portia had known it was only a matter of time before he was free to do so. So far he'd been caught up in Flagstaff, acting the part of secret police in some classified capacity, as the Frumentarii sometimes had to do. It was one of the reasons they were hated as much as they were feared and respected. They had ears everywhere, and Vulpes in particular had taken the Frumentarii to an entire new realm of skill since he had gained leadership.

Vulpes. He was the only man in the Legion that concerned Portia. Not just his near inhuman ability as a spy and soldier, but the political implications of his existence. Namely, marriage. It was only a matter of time before her father decided upon a man to take control of his unruly daughter. Rumor had it that it would be Lucius, but Portia knew better. No, Vulpes would be a far greater ally in that sense. Caesar kept his riskiest men the closest to him.

"Anyway," she'd once overheard Caesar saying to an advisor, "it's gonna take someone of his caliber to tame my little girl."

_My little girl_. It was a rare occasion that he referred to her in such an affectionate way. Of all his children, she was his biggest liability. She respected the man, loved him, believed in his goals. But not even a sense of familial duty, or allegiance to the Legion and all its ideals, could keep Portia from answering the call within her—the one that demanded Joshua Graham's head at her feet.

V*P

The watch on Portia's wrist read 3:18. Outside, that late night/early morning chill had evolved into a cold temperature worthy of the current month, October. It was still. That's what woke her up. The pervasive quietness was too much to be normal this close to Freeside. No random shouts in the distance, no spatters of gunfire—not even crickets. Common sense told Portia that someone was nearby. Her heart immediately quickened and it was that inevitable point when her lack of training kicked in and pesky emotion took over. There was panic because if she was caught now, chances were slim that another opportunity to track Graham down would arise. Worse, it might not be Legion out there. The wasteland was chock-full of threats much greater than her father's men.

The rifle leaning against the bed frame was loaded already, so when Portia stood, she was able to grab it, tie her laces, and leave rather rapidly. Down the hall, out the back door, midway into the sparse, untended field of wheat—footsteps. Quite clear, in fact. Two things were instantly obvious: one, someone was indeed following her, and two, that someone wanted Portia to know. The predator alerting the prey, upping the ante and the thrill of the chase. Either that or she was giving her pursuer too much credit and it was, in fact, just a poor tracker, a raider or a Fiend. They had no qualms about noise. The last story she'd heard about a raider, this one at the trading post over on 188, told of a young woman who was caught, drugged, raped, and then literally shred to pieces for their amusement. Crazy fuckers.

There was the soft brush of plants being passed. Closer now. She sped up, making for the far fence, which bordered a small cliff. The only option then would be to jump—better than the alternative, which was to engage in a fight with whomever now followed. The pounding of Portia's heart replaced any other sound, any other physical feeling. It took an intense amount of focus to keep from becoming overwhelmed. 100 feet, 50 feet, almost there. She reached her hand out to grab the fence, splinters be damned, as her pursuer caught up and grabbed her by her upper arms, jerking her back with force. Her rifle flew off somewhere to the side.

Quickly she went limp, hoping to surprise the attacker with her weight, but the person kept a tight hold. In compensation, Portia sprung back up and pushed back with as much strength as she could. The only thing she succeeded in doing was knocking the air out of her lungs. Her attacker was a statue. Without warning she was flipped around and her startled eyes looked up into the cold, irritated face of Vulpes Inculta.

Damn, she thought. In that moment, Joshua Graham slipped away—her dream of finding that murderer and gutting him disappeared, and all she was left with was painful regret. It soon gave way to severe annoyance and a more distant feeling of apprehension at just exactly what Vulpes was going to do to her now.

For now, all he did was stare down at her with that customary disdain. One of his hands made its way to her throat, gripping it easily, squeezing the soft flesh ever so slightly. The implication of the gesture was clear: game over. Vulpes was the master of the hunt and he held his prey's life between insipid fingers. And despite herself, Portia swallowed heavily and shuddered. That traitor fear made its presence known. A flash of something lit up Vulpes' eyes briefly—she imagined the fear excited him in his perverse way.

Finally, after long, torturous moments of just staring at one another, Vulpes deigned to speak.

"Ave, dulce."

"Ave, _dominus_."

His thumb reached up to stroke her chin gently, accentuating the affection with which he bestowed her pet name. Just for them. Always for them. In contrast, Portia called him master with just the barest tone of insolence, her surprise fading into something more steely, something ready to fight. Nothing else was said for several seconds. This was their game, a minute battle of wills. Invariably, he was the victor because Portia always looked away first. No matter the long years she had known him, getting used to the intensity of his gaze was not feasible… or desirable, even, for then he wouldn't be Vulpes Inculta, the man whose very name struck fear into the enemies of the Legion.

So Portia dropped her eyes like a good Legion female, and a moment later Vulpes' hand disappeared from her slender neck, though the feeling of his cool grip remained.

"It seems your men are not as skilled as my father thought," Portia commented carelessly, though she still watched the ground, not quite ready to endure his scrutiny.

The hand that still held her arm tightened noticeably, but she didn't flinch. Rather, she asked, "How did you find me?"

"I never lost track of you."

His answer made her gasp and snap her head up. It was clear his words were deadly serious.

"Come now, little bird. You didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you?"

Vulpes knew she disliked that particular nickname, knew it made her feel like the child it once belonged to.

"Vappa ac nebulo!" Portia practically spat the insult at him. He was unfazed. Stepping back, she folded her arms and leveled an icy stare in his direction. "Why did you wait so long to collect Caesar's property? A dangerous game."

The thin smile that graced his lips was infuriating. It said everything and nothing while he himself remained silent. Portia soon figured it out. He had _let_ her go on her adventure. It was a lesson. But a lesson in what? Futility? Inferiority? Powerlessness? She ground her teeth as she contemplated the answer. And yet—

And yet… he had still let her go. And in their world of political intrigue and power dynamics, that was saying a lot. He had risked much to allow her brief freedom. Portia softened at the thought. It seemed he'd given her as much time as he could without taking action. Had she only gotten to Graham a little faster…

Vulpes watched the transparent thought process transpire in front of him with a neutral expression, waiting for her inevitable acceptance. It didn't take long.

Finally, Portia's shoulders slumped. Without warning she wrapped her arms around Vulpes and laid her cheek against his armored chest, letting the cold steel soothe her sunburned skin. He didn't hesitate in returning the embrace, something which would have been forbidden back home. One didn't just touch the daughter of the Son of Mars.


End file.
